After
by Lizzielollipop186
Summary: Life goes on for the living. This is a story I'm dedicating to Christian's life immediately picking up where the love story ended. I own nothing. Thank you so much for reading.
1. A Sickening End

She was gone. The warmth of her body already seemed to fade. I held her closely to my chest, naively hoping the beat of my heart would somehow reinvigorate hers, but it was, of course, in vain. Instead, I came to find that I was only clutching the beautiful shell that also once held her inner perfection.

Where were we? Who was screaming? Was it I? It had to have been, because as I glanced at all the faces surrounding my crumpled form on the floor, it occurred to me that no one was moving or speaking. I must have been the one screaming.

My mother had died when I was a lad. It was right around the time I had turned thirteen years old. She had been a bit of an eccentric woman my entire life. When I began writing short stories for the Grand King's Country Post, she was the subject of every tale I tried to sell. She and my father had not shared the fantastic love that I had come to know with Satine, so my father had gone about her death in a very business-like manner. Even as we buried her, he did his best to instill in me the principles of suffering in silence. _"If you must cry, don't burden those around you with your pain."_ His words troubled me. I felt a strange, immense sadness deep within my core that my mother had died. His apathy turned my grief into guilt for mourning.

With the thought of my mother, I then braved a peek at Satine. I loosened my grip around her chest and laid her back gently to see her face in the light. Though before I could take a look, my breathing became much more erratic and I lost my nerve.

I felt two hands fall onto my shoulders. "Christian," Toulouse's voice sounded far from wherever I was. I jerked away, letting frustrated howls rip from my throat. I didn't know what I was saying, or to whom I was speaking. Then came the thought, who would I speak to anymore? Satine was gone from my life. I had no one to share my writing with any longer.

Toulouse made an attempt to get my attention again, but my reaction had been even louder and angrier than before. Did he not understand? Did none of them? Had they not experienced loss? Or had my father been right, meaning I was holding Satine's ever-chilling body and exhibiting all the wrong displays of grief?

Without any warning, a large, rough hand struck my face. I fell backward, releasing Satine and landing in the arms of someone behind me. I blinked, stunned into quietness. I felt a dull, but potently present throb start from my cheek and slowly creep into the rest of my body. I heaved a breath, but there was pain in my chest and throat. I must have been sobbing for ages. I looked at the circle of performers around me. They stared back, their faces squished into expressions of sympathy and remorse. There were even women whose thick, powdery makeup was visibly streaked with tears. Still, though, they were quiet, no one uttering a sound.

With nothing but masks of sorrow looking back at me, I wondered where all the chatter that had begun to fill my ears was coming from. It was clear that, on the stage, there wasn't anyone who would dare speak while the writer was a hysterical mess on the floor.

The stage. I remembered, then, that there was an entire audience in the house still. The applause had ceased, and it sounded as though they were now preparing to file out. I wondered, for only a moment, where the Duke was. What would he do when he heard about Satine?

Satine's body lay between the Argentinian and myself. He had been the one to deliver the smack to my face. I could tell, as he was still shaking his right hand, as though it had been jarred. I looked up at his face, and he returned the gaze.

The Argentinian held his other hand down to me. I looked on Satine for a moment, her body lying still in the mess of flower metals and confetti, before accepting his assistance. I was surprised to find that my legs were almost too shaky to support me.

I stood, sniffling and wiping my face while I turned in a circle to get a look at everyone present. Still, no one said anything. The sound from the audience was becoming less obtrusive now. They must have been leaving. Everyone in that room had somewhere else to be. After all, anywhere was better than the Moulin Rouge. I had had somewhere to be, hadn't I? Before tragedy transpired, my life was going somewhere, was it not?

"Zidler," I said, calling to him in the only voice I could muster. The Argentinian stepped aside and Zidler filled his place on the floor, careful not to look down at Satine. Instead, he looked at me, his face dark and sullen. He appeared neither sad nor surprised. There was nothing to his eyes, except that they didn't dare venture down. I couldn't help myself. I glanced at Satine's body. The sight of her dead stabbed a pang into my chest and I caught my gasp before it escaped.

I looked back at Zidler and began speaking before my cries could consume me again. "She was ill," I said, stating more so than asking. Zidler nodded once, never breaking contact with my eyes. "She was ill," I repeated, waiting for any sort of clarification.

"She had consumption," he said to me, but loudly enough so as to explain to the rest of his Moulin Rouge family. "Tuberculosis. It's terribly deadly, I know you've all heard of it." His attitude reminded me of my father's after my mother's death, and I felt deeply bothered. Yet, I found I felt comforted by the familiarity of his impassive tone.

She had been sick. I had witnessed several of her fainting episodes. Guilt began to rush into the pit of my stomach. Was there something I could have done? I should have been kinder to her in her final hour, instead of venting my frustration like a madman. Why hadn't I realized sooner that something was terribly wrong?

A moment later, I found myself on the opposite side of the stage, bent over, unable to stop the bile from spilling out of my mouth. She was gone. Satine was gone. When she came to me the day prior to tell me she had chosen the Duke instead, I thought I'd never feel such excruciating pain again. I was sure that it was the worst thing that could ever happen to a man. I had been wrong. I had been wrong about so many things.

I panted and tried to collect myself, but the fumes from my vomit made my stomach feel sicker, and I began to feel dizzy instead. I thought about my mother and all the vomiting she had done before she died. I wished desperately, then, that the upheaval of my gutty fluid would have killed me too.


	2. Apathy From Above

Admittedly, I considered not going. I didn't see the point. The task of burying a body was a job for four or five men at the most. We needn't all gather round to bear witness. The job would be completed either way. The body within the box wasn't Satine. I wouldn't have expected anyone to come and watch me be buried.

Yet, we all found that her memory meant more to us than common practice. Toulouse had made rounds and collected a bit of money from each of us to chip in for a headstone. It wouldn't be anything fancy, only her name. Just so that any passerby in the churchyard would know that Satine Diamant had lived.

Did I have to be present? How could any of them ask me to watch the shell of the woman I loved be buried six feet under Paris soil? A body I'd explored each inch of condemned to the darkness of a coffin. I didn't want to watch. She was more to me than that.

But, as they do, the days passed (at an agonizingly comatose rate) and the morning came that I found myself tying my bowtie in front of a mirror. My attire was modest. I couldn't imagine anyone else from the Moulin Rouge would be putting too much extra effort into their appearance either.

I could see the church steeple from the view of my apartment. I was grateful that the rows of gravestones below it was out of my sight.

The sky was cloudy and bleak, unsettlingly fitting for the mood of the afternoon. I popped my hat on, and as I headed out the door, I retrieved an umbrella. I prayed that it would not rain on my darling's last day above ground.

I met Zidler and a gaggle of the Moulin Rouge crew near the entrance of the theater. Only a few of the dancers had come, including Nini, who, I noticed, hid her eyes beneath a black veil drawn across her face. Chocolat shook my hand as I approached, as did the Argentinian. Zidler looked distracted, staring off into the bustle of the busy street.

Toulouse rested his hand on my arm, and I looked down to meet his eyes. "Are you ready?" He asked quietly. The question infuriated me down to my core. Of course I wasn't ready.

I nodded. With that, Zidler mechanically put one foot forth before the other and began to lead the few of us to the church.

Satine's death had made the papers the day before. The Moulin Rouge postbox had already received a few cards of condolence from men who were sad to hear that she had passed. Zidler had taken the sympathy wishes and tossed them onto the fire. Zidler wouldn't speak to anyone about his feelings regarding her death. No matter the affection he'd had for Satine, the business truth of the matter was that he had lost his star, his largest source of income.

I'd almost forgotten that the world hadn't stopped for anyone else. It wasn't until we were fully submerged in the crowd of Olly Avenue that I remembered Satine's death hadn't interrupted the lives of others as it had mine.

When we got to the church, we immediately spotted the mound of dirt beside the hole in the earth where Satine's body would be laid to eternal rest. The sight of it made my stomach twist, and I thought for sure I would vomit. I felt sweat break across my forehead.

From within the church, a priest crossed over the threshold, waving his arm. "Welcome!" he exclaimed. His cheerful tone offended my morose attitude. "Who among you is Harold Zidler?" He had reached us, standing under the archway of the gate which wrapped around the entire perimeter of the grounds. Zidler stepped forward, holding out his hand. The priest put both of his thin hands around Zidler's large one, promising God had blessed Satine's soul.

Toulouse handed him the purse of money, which the priest solemnly accepted. I glanced up at the sky to see the clouds turning. _If there is a God, _I thought, _He will not allow a single drop of rain to fall before she's in the ground._

"Right this way," said the priest, who had introduced himself, but I hadn't been listening. He was insignificant. They all were. Losing the one who meant most to me put into a cold light how little my need for anyone else truly was. I felt no connection or responsibility to anyone.

We surrounded the hole. I stood between Zidler and Toulouse but looked at no one in particular.

I looked upon the headstone and felt a chill in the pit of my stomach. Satine's name was chiseled into the cheap stone, where it would solely remain until I would be able to bring myself to taste the syllables on my own tongue once more. I couldn't say her name. She'd asked me to tell our story, and I couldn't even say her name. I was deeply ashamed.

All of our heads turned in the direction of that damned priest's voice as he exited through the church doorway once more, this time chanting a blessing as he walked, waving what looked to be a baton in his hand.

Then, in tow, four men emerged from the chapel, carrying the casket which contained the body of my dearly beloved. My knees became weak. I couldn't help myself as I dropped one hand onto Toulouse's shoulder to steady my stance. He looked up at me. I could see the glazed wetness of his eyes. I guessed I had forgotten that Satine had meant something to him as well.

The Argentinian and Marie, who had been standing across the gravesite from myself and Zidler, parted to allow the men to get through. Their faces were stone as they set the casket down and separated, two of the men moving to the other side of the rectangular hole in the ground. There were ropes in their hands to gently set the box into the earth.

It was then that I felt a drop of water upon my cheek. I checked my eyes to see if I was crying. I wasn't. I looked up at the sky. The clouds had darkened. Then, the rain began to fall. My hands shook at my sides. "No," I hissed. Zidler looked at me for a moment, and then returned his gaze to Satine's casket, now wet from the cruel rain shower of a God who didn't care.


End file.
